Almost Lover
by singsongyylove
Summary: Cuddy has been shot, House is pretending not to care, but in truth, he's blaming himself. Can he admit to himself that this will change things for him? oneshot T for language


So, I wrote this a while ago and I wasn't sure how I felt about it. I read it again and tweaked it a little bit, and I think I like it. It's a bit OOC, but whatever.

Disclaimer: The OC, Greg House, Lisa Cuddy, James Wilson, Allison Cameron and cringe Stacy Warner are wholly property of Fox. If they were mine, things would be a whole lot different around these parts.

* * *

**Almost Lover**

"I'm watching The OC. This better be important."

"It's Cuddy," the sound of House's best friend's voice was not as it should have been. He sounded… scared.

"What about her?" House was still annoyed.

"She's in the ER. She was shot."

"Where?" House tried as hard as he could to hide any change in his voice, any sign of worry.

"Her house."

"No, idiot, where's the bullet?"

"Oh. Her chest. They're goin-"

But House had hung up. He had already walked out the door, not even bothering to grab his coat. Driving recklessly, he maneuvered his way to the hospital as fast as he could. And it being midnight, the traffic was not that bad. He arrived within ten minutes.

"Where is she?" he asked as he strode into the hospital. Nurses who heard looked from one to the other, unsure of the right response. House stared at their faces incredulously, "where the hell is she?" Wilson finally emerged from around a corner, and took a deep breath as he saw House standing in the middle of the lobby.

"House," his voice shook, "she," he stammered, "she's dead. Her heart stopped minutes after I got off the phone with you."

The words sat like a film over his skin, not yet absorbed. Not yet to be understood. How could he no longer expect to hear her angry voice come up from behind him or her beautiful silhouette to show itself again? How could things continue to exist when she did not? What would happen to all the people who knew her? More immediately, what would happen to him? The words settled like a growing pain beneath his surface. The faces meant nothing to him anymore, the words. He didn't believe them. A world without her did not exist in his mind; he didn't believe that such a thing could ever be.

"She had lost too much blood," Wilson continued when House's expression didn't seem to change from a state of misunderstanding. House refused to listen, though. He continued past Wilson without acknowledging him. He didn't look into the eyes of the nurses, he didn't say a word. He walked through the lobby, continuing through double doors to the ER. He searched through men, women, and children on gurneys. Doctors standing around them. Loved ones watching helplessly.

One held a woman dressed in jeans and a tight shirt, the bright red soiled with dark red stains. Her dark hair laid haphazardly, her lids closed. She didn't move. Only one person stood by her bed, a young woman in a white lab coat with innocent eyes that were laced with water and lips clamped together tightly. She stepped away as House approached, his focus only on the woman on the bed, the stains across her shirt, the way her mouth hung open ever so slightly.

"Time of death: eleven fifty-six PM."

"What happened," he stated rather than asked.

"She was on a date," Cameron slowly answered the unasked question, "The man just shot her. They don't know why."

Cameron then saw Wilson scramble into the ER. He spotted House's back to him, and looked up into Cameron's eyes desperately. Without excusing herself, she walked over to Wilson.

"I told him what happened. He's just staring at her."

Cameron turned to look back at House and the two watched silently. House slowly inched closer to Cuddy, everything else erased from his mind. He couldn't hear the shouting around him, or see the people being wheeled in and out. He didn't notice anything, he didn't even care. He could only see the pale, lifeless face of a woman who had been near to him the majority of his life. Who helped him, saved him a few times more than he deserved. His hand felt down the soft skin on her arm, finally landing in the cold emptiness of her fingers.

"He loved her, didn't he?" Cameron said wistfully.

"She was the one person he could never quite get a full grasp of. House would have done anything for her. He'll blame himself."

"Did Cuddy love him?"

"Without a doubt."

House released Cuddy's motionless hand then walked over to Wilson and Cameron. Cameron swore she saw him fight back a tear in the corner of his eye.

"You didn't know," Wilson quietly tried to comfort House.

"Why not? I always have before. I always watched her, followed her. But not today. It slipped right by."

"She wouldn't want you to blame yourself," Cameron added, "You're not her keeper. It's not your fault."

"Fuck what she wouldn't want. She didn't want me to be keeping track of her all the time. What did she know?"

"I'm sorry," Cameron whispered.

"I'm going home."

House walked out of the hospital silently and raced away on his bike. He was determined not to care. People died every day, and he never cared. He shouldn't care. She had never been his lover; she hadn't ever even been his friend.

He didn't go back to his apartment though, despite remembering that the door was wide open and the TV was on. He drove down a familiar street, turning into the driveway of a sweet suburban house. He tore through the yellow tape that said "Police Line- Do Not Cross" and opened the door, finding himself in the front hall of Cuddy's house. Though in a daze, he wandered back through the halls. He wasn't aware of himself, of where he was going or why. He avoided the living room, where yellow tape was set up in a circle. He didn't want to see the dried red stains across the floor. He didn't want to remind himself that she wasn't going to ever be in this house again.

Because he didn't care, right?

He wandered into her bedroom, and swung open the doors to her closet. The endless amount of skirts, blouses, and shoes sent his head spinning. He stepped forward and picked one hanger holding a pink sweater off the rack. He examined it, and then held it up against his face. He took one deep breath before throwing it on the floor. He collapsed on her bed, nestling his face between the pillows. It smelled just like her. He decided he would just stay there for a little while.

"Greg. You can't be in here," a female voice said softly.

"I love you, Lisa."

"Greg, get up, please," it begged again.

"I love you."

"I'm not Cuddy. You need to get up; you're not supposed to be in here."

"I love-"

"House! Stop!" the woman yelled. House finally looked up at her, a face he should have expected but didn't. Stacy Warner. Of course she would show up, she always showed up when he least expected it. He wanted to put his head back down and ignore it. He wanted to forget that he had to keep on living and stay in the moment where Lisa Cuddy still existed through the clothes, the books, the sheets. The way they smelled. It made him dizzy to think that the pink sweater on the floor would remain empty. He wanted to close his eyes and not wake up.

But he didn't care. He wouldn't care. Focus. Don't think about it. Just listen to Stacy.

"What are you doing here?"

"Wilson called me," Stacy explained.

"Oh," he replied lamely.

"How long have you been lying here for?"

He looked at the clock. It was three in the afternoon.

"Fourteen hours."

"Oh God. You need to get home."

House let go of the pillow he had pulled tightly across his chest. Stacy walked with him at a time-consuming pace, and forced him to ride in her car rather than taking his bike. As the car hummed along, a CD was playing very quietly. So quietly that one wouldn't even think about it. But House was trying to focus on one thing; something that would take his mind off of it. He was avoiding caring about it at all cost. But the words of the song couldn't have been any more useless in this attempt.

_Goodbye, my almost lover._

House gripped his cane tightly, trying to avoid the inevitable.

_Goodbye, my hopeless dream._

He looked at the houses passing by, curling his lips inward.

_I'm trying not to think about you._

At this point, he tried as hard as he could to block out the lyrics to the song.

_C__an't you just let me be?_

House slammed his fist against the power button on the stereo. Stacy jumped, looked at him for a moment, and focused back on the road, accepting that she wouldn't understand him. They drove in complete silence. When they finally arrived at his apartment, she came inside, visibly astonished when his door was standing wide open and his television was playing an unknown soap opera. Stacy stood just inside the door with him for a moment.

"Are you going to be okay by yourself?"

They were both silent. House didn't seem to have the power to respond.

"I know this is hard," Stacy said in some attempt to comfort him, "I know how you felt about her. Even when you were with me, I know she was the only one who could have had you. I just hope you know: if you need anything- I'm here."

The words had made House's jaw clench. He didn't care. He hadn't meant anything to her. With stiff, hostile words, he responded, "You don't know anything of it."

"I'll get your bike back to you," Stacy finally concluded and walked off.

House lay on the couch, show after show playing on the television. He ignored the pain in his leg, not even having the will to reach for the Vicodin sitting on the table. He ignored his grumbling stomach, not feeling the need for something seemingly as trivial as food. He ignored his tired eyes drooping. He couldn't sleep, not a wink, even though he was more tired than he had ever been. He waited for a feeling of numbness to come, but all he felt was something gnawing away at his insides- a feeling of pure pain. He didn't want to think about Cuddy, about how she was gone. He didn't want to think of her, about how he actually cared. He didn't. He didn't care. He couldn't focus on the TV, and couldn't bring himself to change the channel. It was as if he tried to stay in that moment, the time before the phone had rang and Wilson's trembling voice had filled his ears.

_It's Cuddy._

"What about her?" he mumbled aloud.

_She's in the ER. She was shot._

He fought with his mind as it tried to replay the past twenty four hours for him. He didn't want to. He didn't want to admit that he cared she was gone. Gone.

_She's dead. Her heart stopped minutes after I got off the phone with you._

Dead.

House wondered why he had never been able to tell her his one most important secret. He had trusted her always. But never with his one secret. That he loved her. He couldn't count how many times he had practiced it. _I love you, Lisa._ The words ran through his head every time she had been close enough to intoxicate him with her smell.

He didn't care, he reminded himself. _I never meant anything to her. We were never close._

Why didn't he know she was going on a date last night? He always had picked up on those things. He always followed, making sure that she never got too close to one of those idiots she always picked up. Making sure she was safe. But last night, the one night when this was truly necessary, he was gone. At home. Watching The OC. What a truly worthless man he was.

He must have eventually fallen asleep, because he awakened with a start when a loud knock came to his door. He didn't respond, so Wilson simply invited himself in.

"The funeral is in two hours."

"I hate goddamn funerals."

"Just come."

House said nothing.

"Please."

Silence.

"Fine."

For an interminable amount of time, he stood, staring at his clothes. He had nothing suited for a funeral. He picked a blue shirt, the blue shirt that almost made him look nice. He picked a suit. A tie? No. He didn't even own one of those. He showered at a deadly pace, finally putting on his chosen outfit and entering the living room, where Wilson had taken his spot on the couch.

"Can we go?"

"Let's get this party started," House said emotionlessly.

"House, don't be like that."

The people at the funeral were quiet. It was, not much to House's surprise, one of the most unpleasant experiences of his life. Whenever two people met eyes, they looked away. It was as if they were forbidden to be human today. Forbidden to speak, forbidden to look, forbidden to touch, and most of all, forbidden to feel. The service dragged on for what seemed like years. People talked about her. About how she was smart, funny, kind, trustworthy. Any positive word they could think of, she was it. They talked about her- they said all the things he already knew. All the while, he stared at her, her inert body. Dead. And when it finally ended, he stood next to her- that beautiful face totally unwrinkled.

He didn't care. He just wanted to look at her. Feel her skin. Smell her. He leaned over her, and gave her one kiss on the forehead.

But she didn't smell the same.

_Goodbye, my almost lover._

_Goodbye, my hopeless dream._

_I'm trying not to think about you._

_Can't you just let me be?_

_So long, my luckless romance._

_My back is turned on you._

_Should've known you'd bring me heartache._

_Almost lovers always do._

She didn't smell the same.


End file.
